


A Delicate Balance

by vega_voices



Series: Come Rain, Come Shine [13]
Category: Murphy Brown (TV)
Genre: F/M, Idiots in Love, idiots to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-07
Updated: 2018-11-07
Packaged: 2019-08-20 13:51:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16556975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vega_voices/pseuds/vega_voices
Summary: The nasty secret that all foreign correspondents learned was that the four horsemen had long ago come to ravage the earth. So reporters drank and fucked and told tall tales to their coworkers because it was easier than crying.





	A Delicate Balance

**Title:** A Delicate Balance  
**Author:** vegawriters  
**Fandom:** Murphy Brown  
**Series:** Come Rain, Come Shine  
**Pairing:** Murphy Brown/Peter Hunt (UST)  
**Rating:** M for “this is Peter and Murphy, I promise you, they are fantasizing about each other right now.”  
**Timeframe:** _The Young and the Rest of Us_ and _Ticket to Writhe_ (season 6)  
**A/N:** So, there isn’t really a plot here. This just trails through the end of The Young and the Rest of Us and Ticket to Writhe, which exist 100% to watch Peter and Murphy flirt with each other. So enjoy the UST. I sure did.  
**Disclaimer:** We know the drill, so let me give it to you again: Diane English, Warner Bros. they own this baby. I’m just over here, worshiping my queen and her king, and living my best life writing them instead of working on my original fic. Don’t mind me. Much like Avery, I just can’t sleep. And if you haven’t seen these two episodes, well, that’s Warner Bros. fault. Message them about it. A lot.

 **Summary:** The nasty secret that all foreign correspondents learned was that the four horsemen had long ago come to ravage the earth. So reporters drank and fucked and told tall tales to their coworkers because it was easier than crying.

Contrary to what she’d told Frank and Jim, Murphy knew exactly where she’d been on her 30th birthday. She’d been on assignment - much like on her 40th birthday - and stuck in a town without a single place to get a drink. Her skin itching, she’d been ready to sell off her camera crew for a shot when Isaac, sweet Isaac, had appeared from whatever hole he was hiding in, brought her to his room, and together they got drunk and fucked in the sloppy way that only drunks can fuck. It had been less than fulfilling, but at least she’d gotten off. Happy Birthday to her. One more prison full of journalists to report on. One more mortar shell to dodge. She’d gone home to DC and, as a birthday present to herself, bought herself an elegant townhouse in Georgetown. A home she’d never appreciated until just the last few years. A house that hadn’t become a home until she was sober and willing to find peace in silence instead of at the bottom of a bottle.

And much like Peter, she talked a good game. Yucking it up to crazy times on the road that always, somehow, involved ducking bullets. Even in the most boring of assignments, there were bullets. Never the same story twice. It helped to hide the reality that no matter what, a kid was going to get hurt. They were there to report on war, on death, on famine, on disease. The nasty secret that all foreign correspondents learned was that the four horsemen had long ago come to ravage the earth. So reporters drank and fucked and told tall tales to their coworkers because it was easier than crying.

Since having Avery, she found it almost impossible to report from a war zone without seeing her son screaming and running from the rubble. How long would it be before these torments came to the States? And really, weren’t they already here? She truly was glad for Peter taking international. Staying close to home kept her sane.

Really, it was good Peter had done what he’d done for Corky. Because embellishment or not, it helped to remember that as a journalist, life really was about not knowing what was around the corner. But, it did help to have a parachute attached to your back in case you fell.

Murphy didn’t want to acknowledge how it rankled though, that he’d swept Corky off her feet - which only encouraged the beauty queen. Murphy needed to ditch these fantasies, and quickly. Peter and Corky were becoming attached and pretty soon, she was just going to be angry and bitter and while she didn’t care what Peter thought of her, she didn’t want to do that to Corky.

Didn’t she care what Peter thought?

Jesus, she needed to get a grip.

Motion caught her attention and she glanced up to see Peter standing in her office door way. He shrugged, sheepishly, and walked in, hands in his pockets. She tried to ignore the surge of heat through her body. “I actually was on a routine assignment on my 30th. Bored out of my mind, waiting for something to happen. You know how war zones are. It’s death by boredom or bullets. My crew put a candle on a cookie.”

She motioned to the chair across from her and tossed him a sleeve of thin mints. These cookies were never going to be gone. “I had drunk, sloppy, out on the road sex.”

Peter laughed. “At least you got laid.”

Murphy didn’t try to stop the smile that crossed her face. She also didn’t miss the look in Peter’s eye, and it bothered her. How many times had he directed that look at her? Was it desire that made his eyes darken from olive to emerald? He couldn’t possibly be entertaining the same thoughts she was, even with his cheesy “screaming to new heights” line out there. No, this was her deal to manage and she needed to manage it fast. Whatever this was, she hated it. She’d had her fill of brash, arrogant men who thought of DC not as home but a pit stop for refueling.

She needed a cigarette.

And why the hell had she just admitted anything about her sex life to him? God. Get a grip, Brown. “Well,” she smirked. “Your secret is safe with me until I need to use it against you.”

“Likewise,” he challenged right back. Peter stood, taking his cookies with him, but turned back at the door. “Murphy, to your … point … out there. About taking advantage of Corky. Look, she’s great, and I appreciate how protective you and Frank are about her. But I’m not interested in her. I saw a way I could be a friend to someone who needed something. That’s all.”

She couldn’t stop the light blush that crossed her cheeks. “Fair enough.” She couldn’t read too much into that statement. She couldn’t. “Don’t you have a story to work on?”

Why the hell was she banishing him from her office?

But he went. Taking the cookies. Murphy tried to get her breathing under control. It wasn’t like it mattered.

***

Peter groaned and crashed down into his chair. “Take a woman screaming to new heights? What the hell was that, Hunt?” And then he realized he was talking to himself. He tossed the thin mints onto his desk and pressed his fingers into his eyes. Yes, whisking Corky Sherwood off for a parachuting adventure when she had already been openly flirting with him was such a great way to get another woman’s attention.

Not that he wanted Murphy’s attention.

Not that he woke nightly with his cock in his hand and her gaze lingering at the edges of his dreams. Or that he looked for ways to taunt her, to stand in her office door, to follow her around like a damn puppy dog. It was getting pretty pathetic and he needed to move on. Fast. He should call someone, anyone. Pick up the phone and see who was available for a weekend fling. Someone not blonde, definitely. Anything to get those bright blue eyes out of his mind, the ones that darkened to indigo when she looked at him.

He wasn’t imagining that, right? She felt whatever this was too, right?

Part of him wanted to just stalk back into her office, close the door, and kiss the hell out of her. But it wouldn’t stop there. He’d push the notes on her desk aside and pull her hair from that braid and run his fingers through it and then he’d …

Yeah, he needed to stop. Call someone. Where was a political disaster in Asia when he needed one? He’d settle for time with drug lords, even for being thrown into the trunk of some terrorist’s car. Anything other than give into the emotions she stirred and then have her reject him. Worse, have her laugh at him.

He’d get more done in the tape library. That at least would give him a focus.

Moving back out to the bullpen, he stopped and watched the object of his growing obsession greeting her little boy with a hug. Avery giggled and waved at him from his place on Murphy’s hip. “Hi!” He chirped.

“Hey,” Peter said. He’d only seen Avery from afar and right now, he looked like a little clone of his mother - high cheekbones and blue eyes that pierced just about everything he looked at.

“Avery,” Murphy’s voice was cautious, “this is Peter. He works with me.”

“Hi!” Avery said again and then buried his face in Murphy’s shoulder.

“Well, it’s good to meet you, Avery. What are you up to today?” He had nieces this age. He could handle this. Why was he so nervous, anyway? It wasn’t like he cared what she thought about his ability to be a person around her son.

The little boy pointed to a man Peter had seen around. “Zoo!” He giggled, coming out of his momentary shyness.

Murphy looked back and forth and Peter watched her roll her eyes, giving in to being polite. “Peter, this is my nanny, Eldin. Eldin, this is Peter Hunt. He’s a reporter here.”

“You’re the one my girlfriend calls the hunk!” Eldin laughed. “Good to meet you.” They shook hands and Eldin took Avery back. “Sorry to bother you, but he saw the building and wanted to say hi. But we’re off to see the zebras!”

Murphy smiled and Peter could not take his eyes off of how gentle she was with her son. She adjusted the little hat on his head and touched his nose. “I’m glad you did.”

“Bye, Mommy!” Avery waved.

“Bye, honey.”

Peter watched her shoulders slump just barely and realized she was still smarting from his comments about being too soft. “Hey,” Peter said quietly, coming up next to her, “the night of my first show, I was totally out of line. I hope you know that I know that.”

She looked at him, her deep blue eyes revealing far more to him than he expected about the world she was living. Damnit. Why did he keep doing this to himself? Why did he keep putting himself in her personal space? “Thank you,” was all she said before disappearing back into her office.

***

  
When Miles had mentioned the Press Club gala at the story meeting last week, Peter’s first instinct had been to ask if he was needed overseas again. Putting on a tux and smiling at Katie Couric was not exactly his idea of a good night. But when Murphy mentioned it was a fundraiser for the Committee to Protect Journalists, he jumped on board. Not enough groups out there were doing the hard work to keep journalists safe and he might hate his tux, but he could get behind the cause.

But now he stood awkwardly near Jim and his wife, Doris, making polite chit chat about Serbia, wondering when he could slip out without being rude. He’d given his money. He could leave, right?

But then Doris’ face softened and Peter turned in the direction she was looking and felt his heart fall right out of his body. He was far too old to believe in fairy tales, especially the ones Disney kept shoving down the throats of generation after generation. But still, he knew he wasn’t the only one whose eyes were drawn to the elegant queen who entered the room at precisely the right moment. Her hair swept up off her face, curls escaping around the jeweled combs that held it in place. Her thin shoulders bare above the deep purple gown that had definitely not been bought off the rack.

Next to him, he heard an intake of breath. “Oh she looks more confident every year,” Jim’s wife murmured in a voice meant only for her husband. Peter couldn’t help but try and tune in. “I’m so proud of her.”

He wanted to turn, to demand what Doris meant by that, but even a first year journalism student could deduce she was referring to Murphy’s sobriety. Peter though, could only stare at how the deep purple fabric floated around her, at the diamonds around her wrists and that flashed in the little hollow of her neck, begging a lover to come and lay their lips alongside.

Peter cleared his throat and walked, awkwardly, over to the bar. This was stupid.

“Scotch, rocks,” he informed the bartender.

Drink in hand, he turned back to the party, relieved to see that the moment had faded. Murphy was laughing with Baldwin and Lansing, just out of arm’s reach of the network president’s reach it seemed. Corky and Miller were dancing, as now were Jim and Doris. He just stood to the side, watching the crowd. Watching one woman in the crowd.

Jesus. He needed to get some self control. But rather than do that, he found himself setting his half-finished drink down on a tray and walking across the room to where Murphy stood. A voice he couldn’t command spoke from his mouth - “Would you like to dance?” And for reasons he didn’t understand, she apologized to Baldwin and Lansing, put her hand in his, and let him lead her to the dance floor.

What bothered him was how perfectly she fit into his arms, how easily her body molded against his. What bothered him was how the lights darkened her eyes, how her hand felt in his, how she didn’t pull away when his landed low on her back and on instinct pushed their bodies closer together. What bothered him was that as the music swelled, she was the only damn person in the room.

What bothered him was that he wasn’t actually bothered. He wanted to pull her closer, to press his lips to the diamonds in the hollow of her throat and given the way her eyes darkened when she looked at him, he presumed she wouldn’t push him away.

 _Grow up, Petey,_ the devil on his shoulder lectured. _Kiss her and put us all out of this misery._ For some reason, the devil sounded a lot like Phil.

He’d been socked by her once already. Did he risk a second time?

“This is beautiful tonight,” he murmured as the song shifted and he pulled her closer into his arms. She smelled of heaven and he knew he wasn’t imagining the way her body molded against his.

“Yeah,” Murphy chuffed, looking into his eyes. “We’re here dancing and dining on caviar and our friends are rotting away in prisons.”

“You’re raising a ton of money for legal fees, you know. I mean, I know the cost of my ticket.”

She almost laughed at that. “Thank you.”

He was about to ask her when and how she got involved, a question that had been festering since he’d taken the story involving Jake Lowenstein, but the music changed. He found their lips inches from each other and wondered if it was at all possible to escape this scenario without completely embarrassing himself.

The answer was most definitely no.

She was so out of his league, it was impossible for him to even comprehend that she was here, dancing, with him. That three songs later she hadn’t pulled away.

***

  
Doris sucked in a breath and lifted her chin from her husband’s shoulder. “Jim? Do you see that?”

“See what?” He met her gaze, his eyes sparkling with a familiar shine. For all the questions and, frankly, boredom, that came with being married for so long to one person, she knew he adored her. Moments like this reminded her of that.

“Murphy,” she nodded to the couple across the dance floor. “Who knew she’d ever find someone?”

“Murphy?” Jim followed her gaze and sputtered out a laugh. “Murphy and Peter? Doris, they heckle each other all day long like children.”

“Well,” she shook her head, “they seem pretty adult right now to me …”

***

In his mind, he just leaned in and did it. He brought her up against him and kissed her, softly. Building to a peak where they moved from the ballroom to a town car and then back to her place where she would wrap herself around him and --

Peter cleared his throat and stepped back. Mitchell Baldwin was standing there, a hand out for Murphy. She laughed and nodded at Peter before being swept into Mitchell’s arms and he just stood perfectly still, watching his fantasy dance away. She looked just as comfortable in Baldwin’s arms as she had with him.

What the hell had he been thinking?

Still, he just stood and watched, trying to scrutinize her every move with Baldwin, and then with Frank, and even with Mike from the CPJ. Did she look into their eyes the same way she’d looked into his?

God. What an idiot.

She was a legend. A beautiful, annoying, irritating, bitch of a legend with a smile that lit up DC and eyes so blue he forgot his name when he looked into them. She pestered and prodded and she threw her head back when she laughed and defended her friends and threw one hell of a punch.

He needed to get out of here.

***

She hadn’t floated in a long time. But here she was, floating up the stairs, her dress trailing behind her, humming Come Rain, Come Shine to herself. She checked on Avery, who was mercifully asleep, and moved to the bedroom, slowly unzipping her dress as she went.

Was it so wrong of her to wonder what it would feel like to have Peter’s fingers be the ones working her zipper down?

Wrong, maybe not. But definitely stupid. Fantasy always let The Dater out of her cage and with every second glance, the idiot in the back of her head was imagining nights just like tonight. She wasn’t a princess, Peter wasn’t a prince, and this had to stop.

Still. He’d held her like she was made for his arms.

She groaned and stepped out of the pile of silk and taffeta, carefully hanging the gown back up. She unhooked the strapless bra, shimmied out of the garter belt, slowly rolled her stockings down her legs.

How would it be, her mind taunted her, if it was Peter doing this? Would he bring her close, pressing his face to the juncture of her thighs as his hands moved across the now-smooth expanse of skin? Would that mouth, that talented tongue, work her until she couldn’t breathe? She sighed and settled on the stool at her vanity, shifting her hips just slightly.

Stop.

Full stop.

First, Peter Hunt was an obnoxious twit who was also a marvelous dancer, smelled like a dream, and held her like she was the only woman in the world.

No. Full stop.

Peter Hunt was obnoxious. The end. He was arrogant and self-centered and she didn’t need him or his type in her world again, messing up all of the barely held together patterns that kept her head above water.

But his hand had splayed across her back as they danced and he’d even dared to dip her once and she’d laughed - actually laughed - at the smile on his face.

Did he have this problem? No. He had his share of women to choose from. One night, one dance, it didn’t allow for this reaction. Still, her body tingled where he’d held her and after she removed her makeup and slid into her green satin pj’s, she allowed her hand to move between her legs, stroking slowly, her fingers working, until release shuddered through her.

As she drifted to sleep, she convinced herself it hadn’t been Peter she’d imagined.

***

Petey. She’d called him Petey. Again. Again. And unlike someone like Corky, Peter knew he could throw a punch and she’d probably land hers better than he would. Damnit. But he was tired from the turnaround trip to South Africa and he just wanted a donut and some coffee and to get through editing without the headache that was threatening to actually come to fruition.

 _Anyway,_ the devil on his shoulder taunted, _you like it when she calls you Petey. And Pita Bread. And Peat Moss. And when she teases you about the donuts. You like how she smells and the way those glasses look on her and you really like that skirt._

He rubbed his neck and forced the headache away. He was going to pitch his Middle East story, the one Murphy was currently bragging about. But he’d already left the notes on Miles’ desk, so it was a sure thing. And then he’d go to editing and call it an early day because he needed a nap. The only excuse he had for any of these emotions was pure, unadulterated exhaustion.

 _Yeah_ , the devil taunted. _Because it wasn’t a week ago when you had her in your arms at the benefit dinner and came so close to kissing her that the entire world melted away. You didn’t go home and spend half an hour in the shower working out the frustration of that moment, wondering what it would be like to unzip her from that dress, to feel her breasts in your hands, to slide between her legs._

Corky was in front of him, offering her donut and he was too wiped out to disagree and the devil taunted him. This one was cute. This one was flirting. This one was practically desperate. This one would be quick and fun and then everything would be awkward. She really was cute. She also was not the one who came, unbidden into his thoughts every night, sliding between the sheets on his battered futon, wrapping her long fingers around --

God, coming in today was a bad idea.

Miles emerged from the elevator, thankfully. He would check in on stories, he would get them on their way. Peter would go to editing and then go home, take a codeine, and crash. He needed to sleep.

Well, first.

Murphy was whining. God, she was whining. It was grating and it was irritating and it made him want to --

Well.

Throw her words back in her face while she complained about Miles giving him the story that was, they all knew, rightfully his. “That’s my story!” She argued about the Middle East trek.

“I’m sorry,” Peter taunted. “Do I have a little jelly donut on my face?”

The look Murphy threw him should have killed him. He considered it a victory that he was still standing. It was a blow that Miles wanted her to write up her proposal and he’d choose. What the hell? No.

“International is my beat!” He argued over her.

But nope. Miles was going to Miles and Peter bit his tongue. He’d get his way eventually. Anyway. There were more important things to discuss. Like how the hell his boss who couldn’t throw a spiral if he tried somehow ended up with sideline passes to the football game this weekend. What the hell?

Really, he didn’t care that much about the story. Sideline passes. He was the new guy. Miles had to take him along, right?

Or. Not. Wait. What? Miles was getting married?

Wasn’t he gay?

Peter stared at his coworkers, who were all losing their minds over Miles proposing to someone he’d barely noticed, and Peter just stared, blankly.

Wasn’t Miles gay?

Shit. They were all expecting him to say something. He sat there and mumbled out something about hoping he was one of the 50% who was successful, but um, why were they all congratulating him? Wasn’t Miles gay? Were they all that ready to believe everything that was put in front of them?

Wasn’t Miles gay?!

***

There were few things more satisfying than landing a dart right in Peter Hunt’s forehead. Well, a picture of his forehead. Him and his perfect smile and thick hair she wanted to run her fingers through while his mouth (that damn mouth) made love to her.

“He just thinks he can come in here …” she landed another dart and revealed in Frank’s cheering her on, ignoring the eyes that turned her insides to absolute mush. Not that Frank needed to know about how she’d yet again woken with her hand between her legs, still hot from the dream of Peter nudging her thighs open and pushing slowly into her body. No, she didn’t need to think about that, why the hell would Frank need to know. It wasn’t like she enjoyed how his eyes watched her when she left a room, or how he was always just inside her personal space, or how the other day in the tape library he’d reached past her for something and his hand had brushed the small of her back and she’d turned and their faces had been inches apart and his eyes were on her lips and she’d almost reached for him.

Nope. It was better to land a dart in the middle of his face.

She had shut this part of her life down. It was kid and work. And apparently fantasies about annoying coworkers who had a tendency to show up in her office and steal her girl scout cookies and sit in her chair and …

And what the hell was Miles doing coming in without knocking!

Oh shit.

Murphy stood there, listening to her boss and friend sob over the end of his relationship, a relationship she’d never quite understood but Audrey seemed like a good fit for him, but all she could think about was, truthfully …

Did he still want the sideline passes?

***

Peter stared at her across the table, the laminated ticket clenched tightly in his clammy fingers. A ticket that somehow had gone through Frank to Jim and now him. But it was Murphy with the other pass. Murphy who knew more about the game than he did and could probably throw a better spiral than he could and really, anyone else he could out-maneuver and get the second ticket but if he’d learned anything it was that she was craftier than he was. It wasn’t that he wanted to go to the game with her, no. But he couldn’t get the image out of his mind of what that would look like. Jeans that hugged her long legs, a team sweatshirt hanging low on her body. Her hair up in a ponytail. Maybe if it was a warm enough day, a t-shirt that clung in just the right places.

“Maybe,” he ventured, well aware that he was letting his cock do the talking, “we should think about doing the mature thing.”

“It’s been a while since I did the mature thing …”

Everything in him wanted to explain exactly what the mature thing was - him picking her up at her place and as they drove to the stadium, his hand moving up, between her thighs. Her leaning against him during the game, grinding her ass against his erection. Them falling into his bed together after …

“We could,” he cleared his throat, “make the best of the situation and go together and try to have a good time.”

He watched the emotions pass over her face and couldn’t help but hope she was mirroring him. Was she envisioning wrapping those long legs around his hips, digging those perfectly manicured nails into his back as she called his name? He’d told her he knew how to take a woman screaming to new heights, after all.

But she agreed. Fuck. She agreed. Peter stood up as she did and on instinct reached out to help her on with her coat. Where did that come from? “Did I mention that I’m a recovering alcoholic?” She taunted him. Why, yes, he did know. He watched her struggle with it at lunches and dinners with the crew. He’d seen the way she chewed pencils and sucked hard candies. It was the one thing he refused to tease her about because even though she never said a word, he could tell how hard she fought every single day. Murphy’s boozing antics were legend, and he couldn’t help but wonder if she turned up the noise sometimes simply to drown out the memory of hazy days that would haunt her forever. “I can drive,” she was saying. “And tell you all about on the way to the game, at the game, on the way home from the game …”

Two could play at this one.

“Have I mentioned that I’ve dabbled in dianetics?” Well, it wasn’t a complete lie. He’d read a lot about it when he was in seminary school. It helped him realize that people would buy any crap at all just to feel better about themselves. “I’ll bring along the book. You might find page 47 helpful …”

What the hell was he doing? Didn’t he want to get her naked?

“The sideline is a hundred yards,” she said as they stepped outside. “With all luck, we won’t even see each other.”

“I’m counting on it,” he snarked right back. Fuck. This was getting bad.

***

It was dumb and childish and oh so satisfying to shove the jelly donut into Peter’s face. Okay, so her plan to get Miles to give her the Middle East story had backfired and now she was stuck going overseas with the unwanted object of her nightly lust, but at least she could … shove a donut into his face? Glancing behind her, Murphy realized Peter wasn’t going to let this one go. No, he was now chasing after her, box of donuts in hand, and she had limited options on where to run and she chose the wrong path.

They were inches from each other - him with the box of donuts in one hand, his other hand against the wall by her head, her trapped back against the wall between the drinking fountain and the stairwell. Nowhere to run. He was right here, in front of her, smelling of old spice and musk and his eyes locked with hers. They were both just slightly out of breath, both just slightly off kilter, and her only saving grace in this moment, because she was about to get a box of sugar dumped on her freshly highlighted hair, was the jelly on his face.

She groaned. Inwardly, she hoped. Because his eyes were still locked with hers, his pupils dilated. At some point, flirting had to become something else, right? Something real? At some point, she …

Of its own accord, her hand reached up, her thumb tapping the drying jelly on his face. “You should take care of this,” she teased, still not breaking eye contact.

“You should help,” he taunted right back, taking another step in. She gasped, just slightly. He heard it, she could tell, and her eyes dropped to his lips. To where her thumb was poised.

They stood, frozen.

“Murphy?”

Marv’s voice interrupted the moment, “Travel’s on the line about the trip to Israel.”

She groaned and pushed away from Peter, not missing how he sagged slightly against the wall as she did so. With a smirk, she stalked back toward her desk, closing the door behind her, and only once she was alone, taking a moment to collapse and catch her breath.

Holy shit.

What had just happened there?

She shook off the feeling, tossing it right there into the trash can with the fleeting crush she’d had on Mitchell, her emotions over Jerry leaving, and the reality that Jake still cared more about the whales than he did his own son.

“Hi Janet,” she said, picking up the flashing line. “I am so sorry to have kept you waiting. I was taking care of something down the hall. So, what’s the best way to get me to Israel?”

***

Face freshly washed, Peter collapsed into the chair in his office, trying to catch his breath.

What the hell had just happened there?

Yes, he was laying it on thick with Murphy, for reasons he really didn’t understand. But between taunting her with lines about taking a woman screaming to new heights and moments like this in the stairwell, even he was having a hard time ignoring what was really going on.

This was stupid.

Murphy Brown was completely out of his league. If he wanted to play around with one of his fellow anchors, Corky seemed willing. But Corky didn’t stride in, a vision in whatever designer had seen fit to dress her that morning, elegant even in jeans and a sweater. Corky was cute, definitely. And much more his type. But was it such a bad thing that he wanted Murphy to be his type? Murphy of the journalism symposiums and lectures at the press club?

Shit. This was a bad thing.

His line rang, his secretary patching through Janet down in travel. Okay. This he could focus on. This he could handle. “Yeah, what’s the best way to get me to Israel?”

Peter ran his hand over his face and took another breath. It was just a trip. Overseas. With a woman he wanted nothing and everything to do with.

Yup. Nothing to see here. Nothing at all.

It was going to be a long week in Israel.


End file.
